My parents are Americans. They are citizens of this great country, which they are proud to call home. They are also immigrants.

My father immigrated to this country from Mexico in 1972 when he was 18 years old. At the time he wanted little more than to provide for his growing family. My mother, then pregnant with my oldest brother, had come over a few months earlier. Before crossing the border my dad was told to squeeze into the spare tire compartment of a station wagon as they drove through customs in Tijuana. For over an hour he prayed and thought of his young wife while trying not to inhale too much of the exhaust that was seeping in from the tail pipe.

That night he slept in a country where dreams come true; a country where people from all over the world are literally risking death just to live here.